


Happy Valentine's Day Sebastian

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Anal Sex, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Bisexual Character, Fluff and Smut, Love, M/M, Presents, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 15:02:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13684083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: Moran's preferred way to spend Valentine's Day is definitely not by attending a boring gathering full of boring men discussing boring topics, and yet that is exactly what Moriarty has taken him to. But Moriarty has an idea how to make amends for this.





	Happy Valentine's Day Sebastian

**Author's Note:**

> I offered to write fluff, smut or fluff AND smut for this year's Valentine's Day fic. Fluff AND smut won the vote.

Moriarty leads and Moran follows, demure, obedient, his head slightly bowed, letting the pressure of the Professor's hand against his tell him where to go. Moran is not entirely passive, merely content to let Moriarty take control, as he usually is; as he has been all evening, whilst holding conversations with various influential businessmen. It was a flirtation, of a sort; a sexless one, but perhaps the closest a man such as Moriarty may come to seducing anyone else. Such men are not interested in sex with him anyway. Money is what interests them the most, meanwhile perhaps what intrigued Moriarty more was the old adage that a fool and his money are soon parted.

Moran does not entirely understand just what Moriarty has been up to this evening but he was content to follow him around, playing the dutiful companion who occasionally piped up with some bit of small talk when necessary. Otherwise though he sipped at his champagne and let the Professor get on with charming those other men.

“You were successful in your aims this evening then?” he enquires in the privacy of their hotel room, as Moriarty closes the door behind them and turns the key in the lock.

“Indeed.” Moriarty turns to face Moran, a smile playing over his lips. “I am aware that such gatherings are hardly something that appeal to you.”

“It weren't my preferred way to spend Valentine's Day,” Moran admits. “All their endless wittering on about stock markets and that... wouldn't have thought it was your thing either.” Having just discarded his jacket, Moran now tugs at his tie, trying to wrench it loose.

Moriarty sighs slightly and, stepping forward, bats Moran's hands aside, reaching up to carefully undo Moran's tie himself. “You know that it is not, but sometimes one must suffer for one's art.”

“And which art is that exactly?” Moran queries with the slightest of smirks.

“My dearest Moran, you well know which art. You are quite adept at it yourself.” Moriarty places a hand to Moran's chest and gently pushes him backwards towards the bed. The other hand he links through Moran's, entwining their fingers. “The art of divesting other men of their money.”

“Oh,” Moran says, “ _that_ art.”

In one elegant fluid movement he turns them around like a man spinning his partner in a waltz. Now it is Moriarty whose back is to the bed and he makes no protest, not even the merest hint of a struggle, when Moran carefully hooks one leg behind the Professor's calves, lifting his legs off the floor, tipping him back onto the bed.

As Moran crouches over him, Moriarty looks up at him, amusement glimmering in his eyes. “You're feisty tonight,” he remarks. He puts a hand against Moran's arm briefly, but only to steady him; again there is no attempt to push Moran away.

“Aye, that's what comes of biting my tongue all night, holding back from telling all those pompous asses what I truly think of them.” Moran tugs Moriarty's tie undone, roughly so, quickly baring enough skin to kiss under the Professor's jaw.

Moriarty tilts his head back slightly as Moran continues to kiss him. “You may tell me what you truly think of them.”

“Bunch of boring men in boring jobs,” Moran says between kisses. “All with their boring wives and their likely equally boring children. They're all so fucking _normal_.”

“And am _I_ not _normal_?” Moriarty enquires.

Moran pauses, lifting his head to look the Professor in the eyes. “Not at all.” He grins. “You, James, are _magnificent_.”

Moriarty laughs, and Moran smiles still.

“I mean it,” Moran says.

Moriarty reaches up and brushes a lock of hair back off Moran's forehead. “I don't doubt that.”

Moran laughs now, before leaning over to kiss Moriarty gently on the lips. The kiss is sweet and soft, mouth closed, passionate but not forceful. Turning his face away slightly after the kiss, he still crouches over Moriarty. “Do you want to...?” he asks, darting a glance towards the Professor's face.

“Yes.” Moriarty runs his hands up Moran's sides and back down again to rest against his hips. There is no need for Moran to be any more specific in his questioning; Moriarty understands well enough by now just what he is asking for.

Moran straightens up slightly, reaching down to unbutton Moriarty's waistcoat, although Moriarty reaches up and slides his hand behind Moran's head, pulling him down into another kiss.

“I'm sorry,” Moriarty says after a moment.

“For what?” Moran asks, face still close to the Professor's, although he is still methodically working Moriarty's shirt undone now.

“For making you come here.”

“Well then, you can make me come in a different way now.” Moran grins. He pulls Moriarty up slightly off the bed to get him out of his waistcoat and shirt, before tossing both garments aside.

“Really, Moran,” Moriarty chides in mock consternation at such cavalier treatment of his expensive clothing. But his hands are on Moran's own waistcoat buttons now, deftly undoing them.

Moran shrugs off his waistcoat, throwing this after the Professor's clothing into the growing pile on the floor. They seem at present to be a confused tangle as they try to remove each other's clothing simultaneously, yet in reality they work in harmony, Moran unbuttoning Moriarty's trousers while Moriarty manages to get Moran's shirt half unfastened. Growing impatient though, Moran pulls his shirt off over his head before Moriarty has finished undoing it properly.

“One day you'll rip it,” Moriarty tells him.

“Don't care,” Moran says, still grinning. With his gaze fixed on Moriarty's, he slides down, dropping almost to his knees to unlace the Professor's shoes. There is far more patience and care in the manner in which he removes these, Moriarty's stockings too, and after these the trousers. There is tenderness and reverence even in the way he strokes Moriarty's thighs, tracing his hands up his bare skin.

“Come here, chick,” Moriarty says, pulling Moran up again. He is acutely aware that Moran now has on more clothing than him and he seeks to rectify this, slipping his hand down to undo Moran's trousers. “What do you want me to do to you, hmm?” he asks, sliding his hand down below the waistband.

Moran gasps against the Professor's neck as Moriarty's hand closes around his hardening cock. “Fuck me,” he says, unwittingly thrusting slightly into the Professor's touch. “Please, sir, fuck me.”

“Hmm, well.” Moriarty abruptly withdraws his hand and flops back onto the bed. “You had best remove the rest of your clothing then, and bring the oil.”

“Right sir.” Panting slightly, Moran backs off the bed, stooping to hurriedly pull off his shoes and stockings, kicking both aside. His trousers come off after this, then his underclothes, leaving him stood there stark naked, his cock standing up stiffly now it is freed from his clothing.

Moriarty props himself up on one arm to watch Moran pad softly over to his suitcase. As Moran bends over to retrieve the vial of oil from an inner pocket in the case, Moriarty is presented with a fine view of his companion's backside. Still not a sight to provoke outright lust within the Professor, he is not unaware of Moran's aesthetic charms even so. How lean but toned Moran is, muscular but subtly so, his body possessing a sinewy strength that very likely will surpass Moriarty's own physical strength, but this is something they have never put to the test.

Moran seems to be keenly aware of Moriarty's attention, aware that he is being regarded in a manner that is oddly distant compared to many of his past partners' way of eyeing him up, but in a way that is still approving and affectionate.

“See anything you want?” he says. He throws a coy smile over his shoulder as he straightens up, gripping the vial in his left hand.

“Perhaps.” Smiling, Moriarty lies back as Moran saunters back over to the bed and lies atop him again, his hips straddling the Professor's.

“You're sure you want to...?” Moran glances down towards Moriarty's midsection. Just because Moriarty is not yet hard does not mean he is disinterested or unwilling – Moran understands this from past experience. But better to query it, he thinks.

“Yes.” To back up his answer, Moriarty slides one hand around Moran's back, pulling him down. He kisses Moran on the lips almost roughly, dipping his tongue into Moran's mouth. Despite Moran being physically on top at this time, it is clear to both of them which one is in charge here, even before Moriarty pushes Moran over, turning him onto his back. Now he is the one straddling Moran, fisting a hand in Moran's hair to tug his head back.

“All those men tonight,” Moran says, arching up against him.

“Why, my dove, are you thinking about them now?” Moriarty queries with a smile.

“You intend to fleece 'em all?”

“Some.”

As Moriarty kisses him over his collarbone, Moran lifts his head up to glance at the Professor again. “What'll you spend the money on?”

“You, maybe.” Moriarty shifts slightly to gently bite Moran's nipple, liking how Moran practically hisses in pleasure at this. “Should I perhaps dress you in finery?”

“You... already do,” Moran says, panting, as the Professor's lips brush over his chest.

“Yes. Alas you do have a habit of trying to spoil your nice clothes in your impatience though.” Moriarty gives a rueful glance towards the crumpled clothing on the floor.

Moran chuckles. “Well then, you'll have to buy me some more then, won't you?”

“Perhaps I will. I could adorn you with jewellery too.”

“Aye, diamond earrings, or maybe a nice sapphire necklace, to set off my eyes a treat.” Moran laughs again.

“I had heard,” Moriarty says, giving the Colonel a conspiratorial look, “that some men are in the habit of putting a particular piece of jewellery through a particular part of their anatomy. _This_ particular part, in fact.” He gives Moran's cock a rough squeeze, and Moran almost comes there and then. His low groan of pleasure in response to the touch sends a shiver of excitement through Moriarty too.

“Fuck,” Moran gasps as Moriarty draws his hand down and away. He seems to struggle momentarily to regain his composure, not wanting to finish so soon. “Professor...” he says. “You're suggesting I put a ring through the end of my prick?”

“I'm suggesting nothing, only mentioning it as something I had heard about.” Moriarty smiles enigmatically, and not for the first time Moran is left wondering precisely how Moriarty hears of such things. “I also hear that small rings through the nipples are considered rather _de rigueur_ in certain circles.” He notes Moran's amusement as he picks up the vial from where Moran has let it drop onto the bed.

“Would you _want_ me to have rings through 'em?” Moran enquires, sitting up slightly, watching Moriarty uncork the vial.

“It is not up to me; it is your body.” Moriarty tips a little of the oil into his palm, using this to coat his own length from root to tip. He closes his eyes as he slowly strokes himself.

“But would you find it appealing?” Moran asks.

Moriarty opens his eyes and glances at Moran. “Perhaps.”

Moran grins at this and licks his lips as he leans over, putting his hand over the Professor's. His eyes remain fixed on Moriarty's as for a moment he helps the Professor to stroke himself. Something about the intensity of Moran's gaze, along with his lascivious submissiveness, coupled with the physical sensations rapidly bring Moriarty to a state of intense physical arousal.

Moran watches him still as he lies back, his eyes looking dark now, his pupils wide, and it takes only the merest brush of Moriarty's hand against Moran's thigh for him to draw his legs up, spreading himself open for the Professor. Adding more oil, Moriarty reaches down and slides first one finger, then a second inside Moran, easing slowly into him. Moran bites his lower lip and his hands fist into the bedclothes. His eyes are closed now and his breath hitches as Moriarty slowly works him open.

“Fuck,” he breathes. It is too much – too slow, too exquisite. He needs more than just the Professor's fingers in him now. “Professor, please... please... just fuck me.”

“So coarse in your language, chick,” Moriarty says.

Moran opens one eye briefly to regard him. “That's... that's how you like me.”

“Indeed I do.” Moriarty guides his arousal into Moran, feeling him open up to him; feeling his length sinking into the tight inner warmth of Moran's body. Moran tries to hold back, tries not to rush him, but he cannot keep from pressing his legs around the Professor's sides, pulling him closer and drawing him deeper inside.

Moran could forgive Moriarty for almost anything in moments like this – the fraternising with mediocre people, the endless mundane small talk, the spending all evening having to be polite and proper when all he wanted to do was drag the Professor up to their room and divest him of his – admittedly extremely elegant – clothing and behave extremely _improperly_. All of that is forgotten when he has the Professor's weight on top of him pressing him down into the bedclothes; when Moriarty's cock is inside him.

Moriarty looks down at Moran, at the rapt expression on his face. Moran seems so helpless during these times. He is certainly strong and has to be to hold this rather undignified position for any length of time, for the pose certainly puts a great deal of strain on Moran in order to hold his legs up. The strain on his thighs in particular must be intense and it serves as another reminder of the Colonel's physical strength. Yet so focused only on the Professor and on the pleasurable physical sensations stirred within him is Moran that he appears to Moriarty to be incredibly vulnerable. The Professor knows that Moran can generally regain his composure very quickly after sex but during the act Moriarty is always made aware of just how much at his mercy Moran is. Moriarty can give him incredible pleasure, or deny it to him, just as Moriarty could break Moran's heart so easily, should he ever choose to do so, for it is not merely lust that the Professor sees in Moran's expression during these times but something far more profound, far more complex. Moran's heart is in Moriarty's hands and seeing Moran so vulnerable - not only during sex, but when Moran is deeply asleep too, or when he is injured or ill – reminds Moriarty anew every time of the depth of the responsibility he has taken on in choosing to engage in a committed intimate relationship with Moran.

It reminds him too that his own desire for Moran can never truly be like Moran's for him. Will he ever look at Moran with such devotion as exists in the manner in which Moran looks at him? Probably not. And yet Moran seems to have accepted this and instead of being discouraged by it, as Moriarty expected he would be, it seems to have made no difference to his regard for the Professor. Moran could have had his pick, the Professor is sure, of countless other men or women, yet it is with Moriarty he has remained. Whatever Moriarty does give him he laps up eagerly, but does not push for more, nor criticise him for Moriarty's feelings for him not entirely aligning with his own for Moriarty. Outwardly they might seem to many to be an ill-matched pairing and yet both slot together so perfectly, so beautifully. Moriarty was hardly unhappy prior to meeting Moran; he was content and did not yearn for a constant companion, but now that he has one and one so ideally suited to him, he cannot conceive of life without him. The sex too, something that previously hardly interested Moriarty also, is certainly very pleasurable, and not only physically. The physical sensations _are_ extremely pleasant, but there is the other aspect to it also that Moriarty relishes; that of seeing Moran reduced to a state of such vulnerability, such helpless, desperate arousal, and all because of him. It is Moriarty who has put him into such a state; Moriarty who has the power to give him – or deny him – the incredible pleasure of orgasm, and that in itself is immensely exciting to a man like the Professor.

Other elements of their relationship also excite Moriarty in a different way however. Not only seeing how Moran looks at him, with such infatuation, almost, but the manner in which Moran's cheeks flush slightly when Moriarty praises him; the way he reacts with pleased surprise when the Professor gives him a compliment or a gift. Moran is not truly someone who requires expensive presents. Moriarty knows of other men who lavish valuable jewellery, exquisite and breathtakingly costly clothing, pricey furs and the like on their lovers, usually upon the mistresses they have installed in some house somewhere well away from their wife and children. But Moran does not need or ask for anything akin to that; in fact really he asks for very little. Even so, Moriarty does enjoy spending money on him, because of Moran's pleased reaction in receiving the little gifts he does bestow upon him, just as he enjoys seeing Moran's reaction when the Professor brings him to sexual climax.

Now Moran looks very nearly lost. He reaches up, wrapping his arms around Moriarty's back as he strains to kiss him. It is awkward and cannot be entirely comfortable for Moran, not least for the way it traps his erect cock between their bodies. But Moriarty kisses him roughly, intensely, on the mouth anyway as he thrusts inside Moran.

“My dove,” Moriarty says softly to him, when Moran twists his face away, gasping for breath. “My boy.” Mine, all mine, he thinks, to do what he will with, and yet all he actually wants to do is give Moran pleasure. Not self-sacrificing enough to do this at the expense of his own happiness, still there is something strangely selfless about it. Before Moran, when Moriarty had never truly had a real friend before, he had really only thought other people existed to be exploited one way or another.

“James,” Moran murmurs against Moriarty's cheek.

Most people never called him James, not before Moran came along, and certainly nobody ever spoke that name with such reverence, such awe, such passion.

“James,” he says again. “God, I...” He lets himself fall back onto the bed again, although he still has one hand gripping onto Moriarty's shoulder.

Moriarty feels the tension in Moran, the clenching of Moran's fingers on his shoulder, the arching of his back, the press of his legs against Moriarty's sides, then the tightening of his inner muscles around Moriarty's length, and Moran comes, his cock pulsing between their bodies. Moriarty has not even needed to touch Moran's prick once since they began this in earnest; it was enough – more than enough – simply to have Moriarty take him on his back. His eyes are tightly shut. His cry as he comes sounds choked off – the force of habit he would find hard to break even in the most private of surroundings, muffling his cries of pleasure through necessity – and almost pained, and the Professor finds himself putting a hand to Moran's cheek in response, caressing him tenderly.

“Sebastian, pigeon, my pet,” he says.

Moran's hands drops limply to his side, although he still has his legs wrapped around the Professor. He opens his eyes and looks up at Moriarty with such incredible trust and such pure, unadulterated _love_. Once such a notion would have caused Moriarty to run a mile. Now that too only excites him – that he could inspire such feelings in such a man as Moran – and coupled with the incredible feeling of having his prick planted deeply inside Moran's warm, tight body it is enough to tip him over the edge. Moriarty comes too, his own cry muffled against Moran's neck as he spends within him.

“'s all right, Professor,” Moran is saying to him in the seconds after his orgasm. As Moriarty slumps down on top of him he strokes the Professor's back gently. When Moriarty kisses him again it is softer, clumsier, a way only to show affection, not a kiss to inflame Moran's passions any more. Moran cups Moriarty's face in his hands and rubs a slightly calloused thumb across Moriarty's cheekbone. “I like the way you look when you come,” he says.

Moriarty laughs softly. “I am sure it is hardly an attractive look.”

Moran brushes a few strands of hair back off the Professor's forehead. “But it is, because you don't show that side of you to anyone else. Nobody else ever gets to see you...”

“Lose control?”

“Yes. Not like I do.” And that is the heart of the matter, isn't it. Moriarty maybe cannot feel for Moran exactly what Moran feels for him but it still means the world to Moran that out of all the billions of people in the world, he and he alone is the one person with whom Moriarty consents to be truly intimate. Moran is the only one he shares sexual intimacy with. Moran is the only one also who really knows of Moriarty's criminal nature. To nearly everyone else Moriarty is the staid, upright, somewhat ascetic mathematics professor, obsessed with some obscure topic few else either understand or even care about; a man who shuns most human contact and appears to lead a very humdrum existence. Only Moran knows of his true nature, and of his true brilliance.

For a second or two though Moran wonders if he has said something wrong. The Professor is not always keen after all to be reminded that he has vulnerabilities himself, and any manner of loss of control must surely serve as a reminder of such a vulnerability.

But Moriarty smiles, and there is real warmth in it. “That is because, my boy, you are not like anyone else.” And there it is, Moran's flush of pleasure in response to these words.

The Colonel drops his gaze sideways and down, always a sure sign that even though he seems more or less composed, Moriarty's words have left him slightly flustered, though happy. So unused to receiving compliments and kindness in the past, still he never quite knows how to respond to such things now, but that in itself is something that Moriarty finds immensely endearing.

“I meant what I said, you know,” Moriarty says. “About spending money on you.”

Moran lifts his gaze again to meet the Professor's. “You don't 'ave to.”

“I want to.”

“What'll you buy me then, hmm?” Moran chuckles. “A fancy yacht? A string of race 'orses? My own grand 'ouse in the country? I don't need none of that.”

It is not, Moriarty notes, a moral objection to having money spent on him that has been acquired by entirely illegal means. Moran has never been troubled by the source of much of Moriarty's income, at least once he was certain that none of it came to him through some means that would be abhorrent to even the seemingly rather amoral Colonel. Even though he certainly enjoys many of life's luxuries, Moran simply does not feel any real need to surround himself with a great many material things. Long ago he had learned that it never paid to become too attached to possessions.

“Well then, I will just have to continue wining and dining you, dressing you up, taking you to the opera.” Moriarty rolls off Moran and sits on the edge of the bed. A proper wash will be necessary soon but for now he merely wipes off the worst of the mess of their coupling with an old but clean towel, before handing this to Moran to do the same. “When I brought you here I was not oblivious, you know, to what day it is today,” he says, standing up. He walks over to the washstand and carefully washes his hands and dries them before pulling on his dressing gown.

“Oh?” Moran glances up from wiping himself down.

“Valentine's Day.” Moriarty stoops, opens his own suitcase and pulls out a small package, neatly wrapped and tied with ribbon. “For you.” He holds it out to Moran. “Happy Valentine's Day, Sebastian.”

Sliding over to sit on the edge of the bed, Moran reaches out and takes the package. “Professor, I...” It surprises him still how easily the Professor has taken to such habits, to participating in such behaviours, and not only easily but apparently with genuine delight. “I weren't sure you'd remember,” he admits, sliding off the bed. “But, well, I got you something too.” Still clutching Moriarty's gift to him, he returns to his suitcase and rummages about it, producing another package, not quite so neatly wrapped. He holds this out to Moriarty. “Happy Valentine's Day, sir.”

Moriarty takes the package from him, another smile crossing his face as he sits down on the edge of the bed again. “Come here.” He pats the space beside him, and Moran sits next to him. “You open yours first.”

Moran does so, tugging the ribbon undone, pulling back the paper, letting both drop onto the floor. Within, nestling in tissue paper, is a cravat of pale blue silk.

“Not a sapphire necklace, I'm afraid,” Moriarty says, with a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “But I did think that the colour would almost perfectly match your eyes.” A queerly romantic notion for a man with no innate romantic feeling, some might think. Some might be astonished that Moriarty even notices what colour Moran's eyes are.

But to Moran the gift and the gesture seem perfectly fitting, a testament not only to the fact that Moriarty truly does observe everything but also that he has clearly put thought into picking out the present, for not only does the colour of the silk seem truly to be the same colour as his eyes, Moran is someone not given to wearing bright gaudy colours. It is not that he dislikes them, simply that he is more used to blending in rather than standing out, and Moriarty understands that about him also. This shade of blue though is striking but subtle, nothing that will draw an excess of attention towards him when he wears it.

“Thank you,” he says, flashing a smile at the Professor, one that shows in his eyes as much as on his lips.

“Perhaps I should have purchased a pair of rings for your nipples instead,” Moriarty says with a smile.

Moran laughs. “Maybe you can save those 'til Christmas.” He pats the top of his gift to the Professor. “Now you open yours.”

Moriarty unwraps his own gift, carefully setting aside the ribbon and paper. Inside is a slim rectangular case, and within this he finds a beautifully made gold pen.

“I hope you won't lose this one like you lost those others,” Moran says.

“I sincerely promise I will cherish this one.” Moriarty reaches up, catching Moran's chin, turning his face towards his, and presses a light kiss to Moran's brow. “Thank you.” He dips his head down, so that his forehead rests against Moran's. “Perhaps next year we should find a more entertaining way to spend Valentine's Day than coming to such a gathering as this.”

“It was all right really,” Moran says. “The last part especially.” He smirks slightly. What he does not say though is that despite spending most of the evening feeling like some superfluous outsider, that the Professor did ask him to accompany him means a great deal to him. This was not a matter of Moriarty simply needing his presence in a professional capacity; instead it indicates a far more personal reason for Moriarty desiring his company.

“We should both get cleaned up properly,” Moriarty says after a few moments more.

Moran wouldn't have minded staying like this a while longer. He would never wish to make Moriarty feel uncomfortable though and he knows that the things that don't bother him too much – the messiness of the oil, the sweat and the  _other fluids_ resulting from sex – are something that Moriarty can only tolerate for so long before he needs to take a bath.

“Right, sir,” Moran says. “I'll run you a bath.”

“Why not run _us_ a bath?” Moriarty enquires as Moran stands up. “I have seen the bathtub; it is more than sufficient to accommodate us both, and after all, Moran, Valentine's Day is far from over yet.”

Moran considers this statement, wondering if this means Moriarty has more sexual activity in mind or if he truly only wishes to take a bath with him. Not that it particularly matters either way though – Moran would be content with either kind of physical intimacy with the Professor and would never try to push things in a direction Moriarty doesn't wish to go. “Right, Professor,” he says. “I'll run _us_ a bath then.” He strolls away in the direction of the bathroom, which is rather luxurious and does indeed contain a copper bathtub large enough to fit both men in.

While the tub fills he stands in the doorway and watches Moriarty, who is seated on the edge of the bed still, seemingly examining his new pen more thoroughly. Such a complex man, Moran thinks, one who continually still defies Moran's expectations about him. From almost the first moment they met the Colonel had grasped that the austere looking Professor was not all that he appeared to be, far from it. But even so he had far from truly understood what manner of man really lurked behind that facade. Even many months into their association, Moran had still believed Moriarty could never come to care for him as Moran wanted him to. Too many opportunities had seemed, to Moran, to be wasted – all the times when Moriarty could have kissed him or embraced him had he had the slightest interest in doing so, but he had never done so. But Moran had erred, of course, in mistaking Moriarty's lack of action for lack of interest. The Professor, not possessing such innate desires himself, being oblivious to the romantic interest of others in him, simply had no idea that Moran longed for greater physical intimacy, not until the night Moran had all but blurted it out, fearing almost at once that he had scared the Professor off forever and destroyed everything good between them. Yet here again Moriarty had confounded him and defied his expectations, turning out to be most amenable to learning how to kiss him; to exploring new forms of physical intimacy with him; to engaging in gestures and behaviours that seem undeniably _romantic_ and, moreover, showing every indication that he enjoys doing them. That Moriarty's reasons for doing so are seemingly not precisely like Moran's has never really mattered to Moran. All that matters to him is that the Professor cares for him, and if he needed any further proof that Moriarty does indeed care for him, there on the bed now lies his pale blue silk cravat. As Moran's gaze falls on this item briefly he smiles to himself.

Not a conventional romance, this, taking up with not only a man but a man with a brilliant criminal mind; a man who has arranged forgeries, robberies, even murders, without ever being troubled by the morality of such actions. But Moran could never have been with someone conventional, someone ordinary, someone _boring,_ like all those tedious old men at tonight's gathering. Unconventional romance this may be, but it is, Moran thinks, entirely apt.


End file.
